Blackbird
by Ethiwen
Summary: In his last days, Roger Davis finds flight in the love of a friend. Eventual MarkRoger.
1. Blackbird

Blackbird

By: Ethiwen

Disclaimer: Still don't own RENT or the characters of said show. It all belongs to the late (and great!) Jonathon Larson. Blackbird belongs to The Beatles, and a later version belongs to Sarah McLachlan.

Summary: In his last days, Roger Davis finds flight in the love of a friend.

Ships: MarkRoger!friendship Will be eventual MarkRoger. If you don't like it, then don't read it.

Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Deals with the severity of the AIDS virus.

Spoilers: April committed suicide. This is post-RENT, so Angel has passed on. Didn't know that? Go watch the show…Listen to the soundtrack…anything. In my Story Collins has also passed away, and Maureen and Joanne have moved away.

Author's Notes: I have noticed a distinct lack of MarkRoger fiction in the fandom these days, and that depresses me. This is the brainchild of that frustration-- a serious angst MR fic that deals with a primary issue people seem to conveniently forget about: The AIDS virus. RENT is a fun show full of the promise of hope and new life, but it also deals with very serious topics, and I often feel that adversity can become lost among our desire for triumph and happiness. Misfortune has it's own set of advantages.

Thanks go out to The Versatile Scarf, who remains the inspiration for everything I do.

"Trouble is a part of your life, and if you don't share it, you don't give the person who loves you a chance to love you enough."—Dinah Shore

* * *

Chapter 1

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night;_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly._

_All your life, you were only waiting_

_for this moment to arise._

* * *

His knuckles turned white as they gripped the side of the pedestal sink in the bathroom, face staring at the water as it ran down the drain of the porcelain abyss. Trickling down, down, down into nothingness. He closed his eyes and lifted his face slowly, almost as though he was afraid. Despite the persistent efforts of his best friend, he knew he had to do this. His eyes opened cautiously, to look at the reflection in front of him.

Before him stood a corpse of a man he once used to be. His hair was long and disheveled, the bleached ends faded, his roots brown and dark; his green eyes that were so used to being kohl lined and vivid were dim and distant—blurred almost. His face was gaunt and thin, pale from not being exposed to light other than the florescent glow that a hospital offered, a tinted yellow—jaundice. He now knew why Mark did not want him to see himself. A calloused hand reached up to his brow to touch one of the dark wounds that graced his once Adonis-like features—Kaposi's sarcoma. It had spread to his internal organs as well, forming tumors on his liver, and he was grateful he could not see those.

Roger Davis was dying.

He never heard the hushed words that the doctors whispered to Mark, but he could feel the sickness in his blood, and he knew the end was coming. He could see it in the way Mark looked at him, and they sickly tone the nurses adopted. Did he need anything? 'Yeah', he would think sarcastically, 'another chance at life if you don't mind.'

He looked down further on his body to his swollen abdomen and legs bulging through his white hospital gown, a sure sign of fluid build up due to the cancer that ravaged his liver. The doctors had told him also that due to decreased liver function, his kidneys were also ceasing to function properly. They said they could no longer medicate, because they did not want to risk any more buildup of wastes in his body if it did not metabolize correctly. His muscles had dissipated leaving his skin loose and he had lost nearly all strength. The IV scars of his last days met with heroin scars of his glory days painting angry colors against his nearly translucent skin.

"Roger?"

The door to the bathroom opened, without a sound, well oiled and mechanic like the rest of the hellhole he now called home. Not even a small annoying creak to reassure Roger that there was still life in this place of death. Every door in the loft creaked, as did some of the floorboards and the eleventh stair. When Mark used to step on a creaky floorboard Roger used to joke that it was off-key, and had thrown him off of his groove. Mark would reply that he needed to have a groove first or something to that effect. He missed that. He missed the way his body sagged into the left side of the couch, and the way you couldn't push the bathroom door too far open or it would unhinge. He missed the sight of the sky, and the way the birds sang. He missed breathing in the smog and angry cab drivers who honked their horns even at fucking 3:00 AM in the fucking morning. He missed feeling the humid heat of the summer and the frigid chill of the winter. He missed the Life's horrible coffee and teasing Mark with pork hot dogs on the Fourth of July. He missed the sun on his face and the rain on his skin.

He missed feeling alive.

"Roger, you really shouldn't be up. I mean, the doctors say that if you move too much, then the fluid in your legs could increase and—"

"Take me home, Mark."

"Rog, you know I'd like to, but the hospital—"

"—is the best place for me. I know." Roger turned to face his best friend. "Mark, look at me."

"Rog, I can see you perfectly, I'm only standing two feet from you."

"No, Mark. –Look- at me." Green eyes welled, "I'm dying, Mark." Roger turned to his reflection and reached his hand up to touch the cold image of himself in the mirror. "No," he growled. "No, I'm already dead."

"Roger, please don't say that." Bright blue eyes met dim hazel pleadingly.

"Why not? It's true. I'm already dead. I was dead before now, Mark. It just took this sanitary graveyard to make me see it. They kill everything that could have lived in here, don't allow plants for fear of "contamination". Like they're going to get me sicker than I already am. Well, what's sicker than dead? I can't even breathe half the time, just because I forget what it's like to draw fresh air into my lungs. Everyone holds their breath around me, avoiding anything that resembles human emotion, and I've stopped trying to feel emotion myself. I just lay here staring at one white wall after another until I forget which white wall I'm staring at until I'm not even sure I exist."

"Roger…"

"Mark, -please-. –Please- get me out of this shit-hole. I'd rather breathe contaminated air than not breathe at all."

Roger waited in silence, staring at the filmmaker, searching for signs in his eyes. Mark's eyes were bottomless, neither light nor dark; Just pools that were too deep to see into. Like an ocean, beautiful, but holding an infinite unpredictable power, too strong and immense to take in. Roger had often wondered what was hidden behind those eyes, but he had never wanted to know more than he did right now.

Mark sighed. "All right, Roger. I'll get you out. But we do it on my terms."

* * *


	2. Electric Blue Eyes

Blackbird

Blackbird

By: Ethiwen

Disclaimer: Still don't own RENT or the characters of said show. It all belongs to the late (and great!) Jonathon Larson. Blackbird belongs to The Beatles, and a later version belongs to Sarah McLachlan. Electric Blue Eyes Belongs to the Cranberries.

Summary: In his last days, Roger Davis finds flight in the love of a friend.

Ships: MarkRoger!friendship Will be eventual MarkRoger. If you don't like it, then don't read it.

Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Deals with the severity of the AIDS virus.

Spoilers: April committed suicide. This is post-RENT, so Angel has passed on. Didn't know that? Go watch the show…Listen to the soundtrack…anything. In my story Collins and Mimi have also passed away, and Maureen and Joanne have moved away.

Author's Notes: I have noticed a distinct lack of MarkRoger fiction in the fandom these days, and that depresses me. This is the brainchild of that frustration-- a serious angst MR fic that deals with a primary issue people seem to conveniently forget about: The AIDS virus. RENT is a fun show full of the promise of hope and new life, but it also deals with very serious topics, and I often feel that adversity can become lost among our desire for triumph and happiness. Misfortune has its own set of advantages.

Sorry it took so long to get the second chapter up. Life has been crazy.

This chapter is dedicated to my very dearest friend, The Versatile Scarf: You are my guardian angel. Thank you for being my everything—I love you.

* * *

_Electric blue eyes, where did you come from?_

_Electric blue eyes, who sent you?_

_Electric blue eyes, always be near me._

_Electric blue eyes, I need you…_

_Always be near me, Guardian Angel_

_Always be near me, there's no fear._

—"_Electric Blue Eyes"-The Cranberries_

* * *

Roger lay in his hospital bed, staring at the grey-white hospital ceiling for the last time. He didn't know quite how Mark had done it, but he had. He had managed to free Roger from the hell he had been living in this sterile prison, finding a way to get him discharged from the hospital and allowed to change to personal home care.

Calloused hands gripped crisp linen sheets, knuckles turning as white as the cloth they held, and tired eyes closed, allowing his thoughts to wander. He was going –home-. He wondered if it would be the same. Whether the coffee would still taste burnt, and if his own bed would feel the same under his weight. He smiled slightly, his rough cracked lips, widening. Knowing Mark, it would be the same as ever. Thinking of his quirky, longtime roommate his smile grew, parting his lips into a genuine, heartfelt grin. His eyes opened slowly, his green eyes full of mirth; though muted with illness, they became alight with life and hope. Even with the lesions that blemished his once beautiful features, he looked like a demi-god—there was beauty to be found in the broken. Slowly, he propped himself on to his elbows, raising himself into a sitting position.

"Mark? How long have you been standing there?" Roger raised an eyebrow, startled by the filmmaker's sudden presence.

"Long enough to see you grinning like a fool." The smaller man gave a little half-smile.

Roger laughed then, a raspy deep laugh, almost as though his voice had forgotten how and was rediscovering exactly how to make the sound. He turned to his best friend, grinning devilishly.

"Get me the fuck out of here."

This garnered a small chuckle from Mark.

"Will do."

* * *

The sun smiled upon the two men as they walked down the streets of Alphabet City, Roger's weight supported by the arm he had slung around Mark's shoulder, and the arm that Mark had placed comfortably about his waist. Mark was keeping their pace almost unbearably slow; though Roger was eager to explore the world; he knew that he was also very weak. Mark was looking out for him as always. In fact it was only at Roger's insistence that they were walking at all—Mark had suggested a cab, but after gentle reminding from Roger that they really didn't have the money for that, and a request to be allowed to celebrate his newfound freedom, Roger had won Mark's approval. Roger knew when he grinned that devil-may-care smile of his that made men agree and women weak in the knees, Mark couldn't say no. He never had been good at saying no to that smile.

"Mark have you ever seen anything as blue as the sky is today?" Roger stared in wonder at sights that ought to have been familiar to him. Illness had rendered him a stranger to all that he had once known, and he felt as though it was his first time experiencing it. The sky seemed to hold a brighter hue than he remembered, and the noise of the streets, once a discordant cacophony, was now music to his ears. Even the graffiti on the walls of the broken down streets held art for Roger.

"The sky is always blue, Roger. I wish it weren't as hot as it is today."

"No, it's -really- blue today. I don't think I've ever seen anything that blue. Reminds me of the Pacific Ocean."

"We're home…let's get you inside, huh?"

* * *

"You just sit there on the couch. I do not want you to move from that spot unless I help you. Got it?"

"Mark, I'm a big boy. I can handle myself, you know."

Roger frowned in protest, but his felt a warmth in his heart. Mark was so protective almost like an angel. That was it. Mark was his guardian angel.

"I mean it, Rog. I said we do this on my terms."

"Alright, Mother Hen, alright." Roger grinned. "Then you have to come and entertain me. Come sit here with me and tell me what's been going on." His felt his heart flutter when Mark smiled back at him, and seated himself close to Roger on the couch.

"Well, not a whole lot. I've been doing a lot of work as a projectionist, and that's about it. I mean my life's bee-"

"Wait, Mark." Roger put his finger to Mark's lips. "Hold still, just a minute." Roger put his hand on Mark's cheek, and drew his face closer to his own, studying his eyes intently. This passed in silence for a while before Mark finally spoke.

"Uh…Rog? What are you doing?"

"I just never noticed your eyes before. I found it, Mark."

"Found what."

"Something more blue than the sky."

* * *

Reviews?


	3. Falling Farther In

Blackbird

By: Ethiwen

Disclaimer: Still don't own RENT or the characters of said show. It all belongs to the late (and great!) Jonathon Larson. Falling Farther In belongs to October Project.

Summary: In his last days, Roger Davis finds flight in the love of a friend.

Ships: MarkRoger!friendship Will be eventual MarkRoger. If you don't like it, then don't read it.

Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Deals with the severity of the AIDS virus.

Spoilers: April committed suicide. This is post-RENT, so Angel has passed on. Didn't know that? Go watch the show…Listen to the soundtrack…anything. In my Story Collins and Mimi have also passed away, and Maureen and Joanne have moved away.

Author's Notes: It has taken me a while to update this. I know, and I'm sorry. Life has been really hectic for me and I've been sort of bouncing from one thing to another and lost my inspiration for this piece. But I'm back, at least for now.

Quick note: I used "" for conversation, obviously. But single quotations '' are used for thoughts. It only happens once in the chapter, but I thought I'd mention it anyway.

Special thanks to The Versatile Scarf. I love you.

* * *

Chapter 3

_Take me past this lonely truth  
And let me go beyond my skin  
The walls that held me here before  
Have no purpose anymore  
Let me enter in_

_Break me from my injured past  
And take me over in your arms  
The pain that guided me before  
Has no comfort anymore  
Let me enter in_

"Falling Farther In"—October Project

* * *

"Shit!" A loud thud resounded from the bathroom, as Roger hit the cold tiled floor. He has forgotten how cold linoleum could be. He sat up slowly, grimacing, small hissing noises escaping his lips. He tried to catch his breath, his vision clouded and dizzy. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the wall. So this is what he got for trying to take a shower.

That hurt. A lot.

"Roger? I'm home…hey, where are you?"

Fuck. Roger couldn't let Mark see him sitting stark naked on the bathroom floor. His face burned with shame at the thought of the pity he might see in his loft mate's eyes.

"Just going to the bathroom!" He found the edge of the tub with his hand, trying to push against that to get up, but he simply wasn't strong enough anymore to pull up his own weight. His face flushed with embarrassment. 'Great job Davis', he thought. 'You can't even pick your ass up off the floor.'

"Do you need any help?"

"Mark," Roger grunted, trying again to pull himself up, this time succeeding in attaining a few inches of leverage, "I don't need help pissing. What are you gonna do…" Roger grunted, beads of sweat forming across his brow from the simple task. "Aim for me?" The musician could almost imagine the blush on his friend's pale face.

"Rog—Roger! You know that isn't what I meant!"

Deciding his current method wasn't working, Roger decided to try to scoot over to the toilet, hoping that with the toilet and tub both, he could manage to stand, but with the first motion, he couldn't help but yelp in pain, his rear bruised and battered from the collision with the floor.

"Roger?"

'Nonono. Don't let him come in, don't let him—'

The door swung open, revealing a very worried Mark.

"Shit, Rog what happened?"

"Oh, I just decided the floor would be comfortable."

"Roger why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you call for help?

"What was I gonna say Mark?" Roger adopted a high pitched voice sarcasm dripping from every word. "Help I've fallen and I can't get up!"?

"Wouldn't that have been better than lying here?"

"No, god damn it!" Roger growled in frustration. "No, I should be able to do this myself!" He brought his knees to his chest slowly, his teeth grinding in pain as he did so. "I just wanted to take a fucking shower, it shouldn't be a big deal like this."

"Roger, why won't you let me try to help you? I knew you were stubborn, but this? You could've seriously hurt yourself!"

Roger sat in silence, huddled into himself, purposely looking away from his best friend.

"Roger…Hey Rog! Listen to me. I was worried about you, I— Roger? Hey…"

Dry heavy sobs wracked the musician's cold, naked body, his frame trembling with cold and frustration.

Mark lowered himself down, awkwardly embracing his best friend, tears collecting behind his eyes and stinging in the bridge of his nose. His arms almost physically ached at how small the other was in his hold, how pale and thin Roger had gotten to be. How fragile the once strong man had become. He pulled him tighter against his chest, Roger's vertebrae pushing against his torso, his skeleton evident just beneath his skin.

"Roger."

He didn't know why he said it. It wasn't comforting or sentimental, it wasn't to capture the other's attention, to scold, or because he expected an answer. But the name felt good against his lips, half-whispered, familiar and holy like a prayer. Roger's name gave Mark a twisted reassurance, as though the single word alone was keeping Roger alive. If Mark could call his name, then Roger was still there, still there to hear it, still able to be called, still tangible and real. He pressed his face to Roger's back, surprised at how cold the skin was, but pleased to still feel the heartbeat pulsing underneath against his cheek.

Slowly, Mark released the other, and stood up. He turned on the water in the bathtub, and when he was satisfied that it was warm enough, he put the plug in. Cautiously, he reached out to Roger, pulling his shivering body against his own, supporting him, and slowly helping him to stand. He carefully helped Roger step over the bathtub wall, and position himself sitting down in the warm water.

"Mark…I can do this from here…you don't have to…"

Worried blue eyes met embarrassed green. Mark said nothing in response; he simply picked up a wash cloth and lathered it with soap.

Tenderly, he began to wash his roommate's body, careful of the lesions on his skin.


End file.
